From
the hot springs
the gypsy headed Lorca
boot strapped
to a blood wedding
instructs the
fervent air
to ensnare
dust from
the Portulaca regime

Seep through
the subterranean wounds
of deception

Stir, Stir, Stir
the mighty
morning imagination
into a pile
of green orthodox
Rent a hand
And settle down
In wretched impertinence
in a
Leaf cup
And infuse
a flavorless
Nothing
to serrate the senses
And rip open
the hypoxic gates
to wobble in provincial poverty

With altered corrections
Some words fall
Off the edge
And baby hands
grab their petals
And dissipate
the morning glory dust…

An exotic infusion
now grapples
with the morning air
heavy with
the fugitive sun
that incarnates
a biscuit tin
and riots it
to a rat- a- tat- a- tat- tat
rat-a-tat-a-tat
to scald
every Kalashnikov mouth
with a piece of sun dunk
and despairs it to
sow some new seeds